


Sore Thoughts

by clgfanfic



Category: Devlin Connection
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian Devlin (Rock Hudson) is just getting used to the idea that he has a son, and now someone has Nick (Jack Scalia), or do they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sore Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Compadres #6 and later in Black Magic #1 under the pen name Lynn Gill.

**1988**

He stood in shadows, watching and waiting.  He was very good at waiting, having had twenty-five years to perfect the art of waiting, and he'd put that time to good use.

Brian Devlin stepped confidently out of his black Royals Cornish, his tailored gray suit impeccable, his bearing full of jaunty respectability.  The man's black hair was liberally sprinkled with gray now, but it only added prestige, just like the few wrinkles he carried only added character to his face.

He ground his teeth together, silently damning Devlin, then rubbed the back of his hand across his dirty and stubble-studded chin.  The hand trembled and he quickly shoved it back into his pocket, squeezing his fingers into a strangled fist.

Devlin.  Brain Devlin.  Olympic athlete.  Military hero.  The darling boy of the Agency in the late 1950s.  Then he gave it all up and created the Devlin Agency, becoming the "greatest living detective in the world."  And then, for no apparent reason, Devlin gave up his lucrative detective agency and started the Center for the Performing Arts.

He snorted.

Brian Devlin was wallowing in success and wealth; had it all… _everything_.

He giggled.  Yes, everything.

Brian paused, exchanging small talk with an older, blue-haired woman who waved and waddled over to join him just outside the doors.  _Probably one of the old bitches Devlin milks donations from_ , he thought.  _Maybe I should follow her, see where she lives.  Maybe she's got one of those little dogs with long hair and a yappy bark.  Maybe I'll drop a little rat poison over her fence_.

His eyes flickered back to Devlin.  Brian had grown a mustache, but his smile was the same, open and unbeguiling.  But that was a lie.

Devlin was evil.

Devlin was a traitor.

Devlin would pay for his sins.

He smiled.  It was so simple.  Devlin had everything.  That was his weakness. Everything…  A son.  Brian Devlin had a son.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Brian left Mrs. Vanderhaussen, and strode business-like into the Center for the Performing Arts, heading directly for his office and the small reception he was already past fashionably-late for.

Fixing the handsome and friendly perfunctory smile the meeting required on his lips, Brian greeted each of the advisors responsible for the Romanian Artists Exchange the Center was hosting.  He nodded, shook their hands, listened to their broken English, then smiled again.  It was going to be a long three months.

After the initial greetings and handshakes, Brian waited, covertly pacing and fidgeting while each of the guests paired off with their American counterparts – dancers, musicians, singers and actors.  The upcoming events were guaranteed to be trend-setting, _avant garde_ and very expensive.  Provided the flu seemingly assailing all the Europeans was smothered in time.  He was sure there would be a run on chicken soup in the surrounding restaurants.  But in the end, Brian hoped, the exchange would be profoundly important not only to the art world, but to the whole world.

With his comfortable, but not pretentious, office finally empty and blessedly silent, Brian allowed his thoughts to stray back to Nick, his still-stranger son.  Even after two years, he wasn't convinced he really understood the young man.  Nick, the stubborn, arrogant, immature…

Brian sighed and ran a anxious hand through his graying-black hair.

 _Who am I really thinking about?_ he asked himself.  _Was I really any more open-minded than Nick?  Did I put my ego aside long enough to try and understand what our argument was really about?  Did I act, in any way, for one moment, older or wiser than he did?_

 _No_ , he concluded sheepishly.  _I acted just as stupidly as Nick_.

_So, now what to do?  What if he decides to call it quits?  What if he decides that a father isn't worth the hassle?_

"Have you tried calling him?" Lauren Dane asked, sweeping into the office and taking a seat at her desk.

"Huh?  No.  No, I haven't.  Not recently," Brian replied.  The woman's uncanny ability to read his thoughts still disconcerted him.  "I tried the day after the fight."  He gave her a sheepish grin.  "And not for good reasons, either.  That was three days ago. There was no answer."

Reaching up, Lauren tucked a stray strand of mahogany-red hair behind her ear. She remembered all too well what had happened the last time Nick disappeared for any length of time – he'd ended up right in the middle of trouble and nearly died when poisoned with an exotic virus.

"Have you tried the club?" she suggested quietly, not enjoying the way it echoed the conversation from two years earlier.

Brian looked at the woman and smiled thinly.  He remembered the incident, too.  He moved closer to her desk and sank down on the edge.  Lauren was more than just a secretary.  She was a friend, someone who'd witnessed the slow and sometimes painful growth of his relationship with Nick.  In the past, she'd seen beyond their blind-spots and pointed out problems they failed to recognize.  He only wished she'd been able to do the same this time.  Maybe if he'd seen this coming…   _After all_ , he admitted to himself, _Nick's thirty, not thirteen_.

"Oh, Lauren, this is all so… silly."

"Hmm-hmm," she concurred, peeking over the top of her trendy, large glasses and suppressing a smile.  Her cheeks dimpled slightly, giving away her amusement.  Brian was decidedly cute when he was worried, especially about Nick.

"Would you call the club and see if Nick's there?  He'll talk to you.  Maybe Alice knows where he is.  Call Earl Borden if he isn't, see if _he_ knows where Nick is.  I want to talk to him, Lauren.  I want to tell him-- Tell him I was as wrong as he was, and hope to God he can accept that."

Lauren smiled.  "He will, Brian.  All Nick really wants, besides your love, is your respect.  Oh, don't forget, you need to see Paul Corrigan at nine to finalize the arrangements for the gallery opening day after tomorrow."  She swung toward her phone.  "And the sound technicians will be here at eleven to go over the structural changes to the main auditorium."

"Oh, yes, that's right," Brian said, mentally berating himself for forgetting both appointments.

"You have to take the fabric samples Carlotta picked out when you go see Paul.  Should I call and make sure you have them here before you leave?"

"Uh, yes, yes, that would be fine," Brian said, trying to force his thoughts to focus on the Center and the multitude of details that he usually juggled easily.  He coughed and cleared his throat.  He was starting to sound like his Romanians.  "And I'll need a copy of the blueprints for the auditorium for the sound technicians and architect."

Lauren smiled.  "Don't worry, they're already on your desk."

"You're the best."

She scooped up the phone.  "I know…  Good morning, Carlotta…"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

He watched Brian the next day, now and then giggling softly to himself.

Standing in the shadows, he scrutinized Devlin's every move.  Appearing wherever Brian did, he was content to get acquainted with the man's daily activities.

The opening for the Center's Romanian Artists Exchange exhibit was scheduled for six the following day, and then the hunt would begin in earnest.

This time, _he_ would be the victor.  After all, he had the advantage.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Brian paced in the small, cluttered police station office.  "I'd like to believe you, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid I don't."

Earl Borden fidgeted nervously, pushing his half-eaten lunch away and clearing his throat before he said, "Look, Mr. Devlin, uh, Brian, I'm tellin' you, Nick didn't say where he was going.  He just said he was heading down the coast for a little R&R.  Said he wanted to clear his head and get some perspective."

Brian sighed.  It was three days since he and Nick had stormed off in opposite directions after their argument; a long time with no word, the longest since Nick had stormed into his life two years ago.

The health club was threatening to fire Nick if they didn't hear from him, and the young lady Nick was seeing arrived at the Performing Arts Center to tell Brian to tell Nick – in no uncertain terms – that she _never_ wanted to see Mr. Nick Stood-me-up-for-the-last-time Corsello again.

"Okay, Lieutenant, I believe you," Brian sighed, easing down into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs.  "But I'm worried.  It's been _three_ days.  Call it intuition, or a father's paranoia, but I'm worried.  Can you check around?"

"I already have," Borden admitted sheepishly.  He picked up the remains of his corned beef sandwich, noted the expression on Brian's face and deposited the half-stale concoction back on his napkin.  "I've called in favors from guys I know from here to San Diego.  Nothin'."

"Keep looking?"

"I will.  I'm a little worried myself, to tell you the truth, Mr. Devlin.  It isn't like Nick to pull a disappearing act.  That must've been one helluva fight you two had."

Brian frowned sadly.  "Yes, I'm afraid it was."  He looked up, meeting the detective's concerned gaze.  "But to tell you the truth, I can't even remember what it was about."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Brian straightened his formal black jacket and pulled his starched white cuffs into place for the third time in five minutes.  Lauren watched him, concern etched across her face.  "Brian, please, stop fidgeting.  Nick's fine."

"I hope so," he said, stalking over to pour himself a shot of brandy.  Lifting the glass, he gulped the contents.  "Where the hell is he?  It's been three days!"

"Brian, right now, you have to put that out of your mind and do what you do best.  This opening will be the start of a great moment in the exchange of artistic thought and freedom.  Even Nick wouldn't want you to be anything but your best tonight."

"You're right.  I know, I know.  But, I had hoped he'd be here.  He knows how important this is."

"Maybe he will be, but it won't matter if we're late."

Brian smiled, allowing some of the tension to fall away.  "What would I do without you?"

She slipped her arm through his and led him toward the door.  "I haven't a clue."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

He watched.

His hands strayed up, rubbing methodically across his dirty jacket.  They trembled less than usual tonight.  Victory was close and he could smell it, rich and copper-stained, like blood.

The limousine arrived, dropping Brian and a whore off.  Devlin and the woman made their way through the small but well-dressed crowd to the large, ornamental double doors at the front of the Bel Aire gallery.

He giggled and licked his cracked lips.  _Surprise, Brian, surprise_.

There was a speech.  He didn't listen to what Devlin said; it didn't matter.

The giggle grew incessant as he thought about what lay in store for Brian when he entered the gallery.

Yes, he would most certainly be the victor this time.

A son.  Brian Devlin had a son.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"…So, if you'll accompany me inside, we'll begin this exchange of artistic thought between Romania and the United States."  Brian turned and grasped the gleaming, almost glowing, brass doorknobs and pushed.

Lauren frowned.  "What's wrong?" she asked softly.

"It's locked," Brian whispered.  He turned back to the crowd, and chuckled.  "If you'll excuse me, I'll take care of this little inconvenience.  As one of the themes of this exhibit will aptly demonstrate, technology can also be our keeper."

A soft laugh washed through the crowd as Brian pardoned his way through the assembly and headed up the small alley to the rear entrance.  Inserting his key into the computerized lock, he waited for the first light to turn green before he punched in the numerical code.  The remaining two lights flashed, then turned green and the lock disengaged.

Brian tried to ignore the small rivulets of sweat running down his spine as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.  Why was he so suddenly hot?

Switching on the lights in the receiving area brought his attention to the pile of discarded flesh staked out in the center of the room.  He felt his stomach clench.  Paul Corrigan, the curator, was very, very dead, and his death hadn't been a quick or painless one.  Corrigan lay nude, his body opened as though the killer had decided to autopsy him, but changed his mind mid-operation.  Surprisingly, there wasn't any blood pooled around the body.

Stepping past the grisly mess, Brian entered the main gallery and switched the lights on.  The paintings and sculptures he and Paul had so carefully positioned were gone, and in their place hung a collection of horrifying photographs.  Each depicted torture, blown up to reveal the minutest details of pain and agonized contortion.  Brian felt himself sway, his knees threatening to give way as he turned a full 360 degrees, looking at the macabre collection.

"Nick?" he whimpered, hot tears slipping down his shock-gray cheeks as he recognized the body on display.

One photo in particular held his gaze prisoner.  Nick's head was thrown back, the muscles in his neck corded in pain, his face was contorted, eyes cramped shut, lips drawn back off clenched teeth in a primal snarl.  Sweat glistened across the young man's features, mixing with the blood from several lacerations on his puffy black and blue face.

Below the photo a large white envelope was nailed to the wall, a bloody handprint waving at him from the otherwise pristine surface.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Lord Jesus," Earl Borden said, his voice catching.  He swallowed several times, then ran a trembling hand over his suddenly sweat-drenched forehead.  Dipping into his pocket, he tugged his handkerchief free and covered his mouth with it.  The lab had just started with Paul Corrigan's body, but the smell, along with the photographs, threatened to dislodge his half-digested dinner.

"There's the envelope," Brian said, pointing, then wiped his own wet face.  He tried not to stare at the photo above, hating the agony chiseled deep into Nick's face.  He didn't want to hear the silent accusations that whispered in his mind:  You let this happen…  You abandoned your son when he needed you…  You failed.

"You haven't touched anything, have you?" the detective rasped out.

"No, just the back door… and the light switches… and the phone."

"Okay, I'll get the lab boys started in here next.  Why don't you go take care of the folks out there."

Brian nodded reluctantly.  "I'll be back as soon as I come up with something to tell them."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

He leaned up against the cold bricks of the alley and watched the blue and red lights dancing off the sides of the buildings.  He giggled, watching Brian talking to the people still gathered around the entrance.

Devlin had seen his worst nightmare.  Devlin had seen the gates of Hell thrown open for him, and the servants of Lucifer were beckoning him inside.  Now all he had to do was make sure the man accepted the invitation.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Brian and Earl Borden sat opposite each other in Devlin's penthouse apartment. The large white envelope brooded forbiddingly in the middle of the antique coffee table.

"You want me to open that?" the detective asked.

Brian looked up.  "No."  Reaching out, he took the slick paper, avoiding the bloody handprint, and carefully opened the flap, spilling the contents out across the table.  A video cassette.

"The lab said the blood on that envelope isn't Paul Corrigan's."

"Nick's?" Brian asked, staring at the tape.  The label read "Nick – Day One."

The detective shook his head.  "We don't know yet, but I'd say yeah."

Forcing himself to his feet, Brian pinched the tape between two fingers and carried it over to his VCR.  He hadn't wanted to get one of the machines, but Nick was fascinated with the possibilities, so Brain had relented and purchased one.  It was just another way to ensure that Nick spent more time at the apartment, more time with Brian.

Pressing the power button, he slid the cassette into place and turned on the television.  Scooping up the remote, he walked back to the sofa, sat down, then pressed play.

A scream cut though the room even while the tape remained blue and Brain glanced anxiously around until he realized that Mrs. Watanabi wouldn't be there until tomorrow.  But he'd been sure he'd just heard her.

A half-strangled curse followed, then the screen flashed and they could see Nick.  He stood naked in the center of a small room, his arms suspended above his head and secured in shackles.  Identical restraints trapped his ankles to a blood-splattered concrete floor with a drain just in front of Nick's feet.  It reminded Brian of the chambers he'd seen when he was working in Europe.  They'd interrogated political prisoners in them.

A second man, dressed in black from ski mask to sneakers, circled Nick, a short whip in his hand.  Occasionally his wrist would flick, the leather biting into Nick's back or chest.  Brian watched his son's face, respect for the grim determination he saw there pressing painfully against his ribs.

For an hour Brian and the police lieutenant watched while the man in black wielded whip, chain, baseball bat, brass knuckles and cattle prod.  None of the attacks were meant to kill or permanently injure Nick, but they were delivered to cause pain, maximum pain.

The man stepped out of the frame.

Brain and Earl Borden leaned forward slightly, afraid of what might happen next.

The man returned with a rolling tray.  Electronic equipment was scattered across the surface, and while the pair watched the man attached electronic leads to Nick's temples, sides and lower abdomen.  The lines fed into a small black box.

The younger Devlin spat blood and tried to suck in a deep breath.  "Wha— What's that?" he asked, fear only half-hidden.

The man finished and secured the box to the floor with two short screws, then stood facing Nick.

"This box has two functions," he said, a mechanical voice-distortion unit making his speech high and tinny.  "First, it randomly chooses an interval of time between thirty seconds and ten minutes, then it delivers an electronic surge of the same intensity administered to psychiatric patients."  He squatted down and pressed a button on the top of the box.  It glowed a brilliant red.  He stood and pulled a camera off the tray.

A small beep issued from the box and Nick screamed as the voltage surged through his body, causing him to writhe in the shackles.

The man snapped several pictures, then giggled.  "That's the same amount of voltage they give during shock therapy, well, almost, but we're conducting shock therapy of a sort ourselves."

Nick blinked rapidly and panted.  "Why are you doing this?" he demanded.

"Why?"  The man circled Nick.  "Why?"  He laughed, a hyena-like barking sound that made Nick shiver.  "Why indeed."

In the living room, Brian and Earl shivered, too.

"Because you're the key, the key to Brian Devlin's personal hell."

"Who?"

"Don't bullshit me, kid.  Brian Devlin sent me to Hell and now it's time for me to give him the guided tour."

The box beeped and Nick screamed as another surge passed through him.  The man giggled, snapping more photos, the same ones that hung in the gallery,   Brian knew.  The box beeped again.

Devlin reached forward and viciously jabbed the off button.  The television screen jumped to snow.

"Any ideas who that man is?" the detective asked thickly.

Brian sagged back against the sofa and ran a hand over his burning eyes.  "It could be any of a number of men, Lieutenant.  Where do I start?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

He waited while the phone rang… and rang… and rang.

He'd exhausted every avenue.  He was lost, stymied.  He'd had no choice but to call for help.

Hands quaking, he reached up and tried to wipe the sweat off his forehead.  He was so hot.

Three days.  Nick had been gone three days.  Three days, three tapes – one at the gallery and two more that had arrived earlier that morning.

He felt his stomach flip-flop and sat down.  He was getting light-headed and it was hard to breathe.

Nick must have been abducted the day of the argument.  _If I hadn't said the things I did.  If I'd just listened!_

The tapes contained images from three horror-filled days and nights.  Nick had been living in Hell, and the images of his battered body filled every moment of Brian's time.

 _Why didn't I listen?  Why do I have to be so damned stubborn!  He's my_ son.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Gierard?  Dominique d’Esprit Gierard?"

"Yes."

Brian's eyes fell shut.  "Thank God."  He took a deep breath and continued as calmly as possible.  "My name is Brian Devlin, Ms. Gierard.  I was given this number by a man named Ray; do you know him?"

"It's possible," the woman replied, but he could hear the trace of humor in her voice.  Ray always did have interesting friends.

"Actually, I called Robert McCall first.  He was unavailable and recommended someone called Ray, a man with a black '69 Stingray for barter only.  Ray gave me your number."

"You have good references, Mr. Devlin, but I'm familiar with your past work.  What do you need?"

"My son's been abducted.  Ray thought you might be able to help me.  Please, I've only just gotten to know Nick, and whoever has him— Whoever has him is slowly killing him.  You have to help me.  Ray said he trusted you, so I do as well."

There was a short pause.  "You were connected to the Agency, Mr. Devlin.  Isn't that so?"

"Yes," he admitted, "for seven years in the '50s, but I left.  I don't do that any more."

"Yes, and founded your own detective agency.  They said you were the greatest living detective in the world.  I take it that the Agency and your own people are refusing to help you?"

Devlin's jaws ground.  "Yes, refused, or simply couldn't find this monster.  Look, I've exhausted all the contacts I have."  He was alone, alone and unable to help Nick.  He was failing his son, and Nick was dying as a result.

"Where can I meet you?"

Brian allowed himself a small but triumphant smile.  "Why don't you come to my apartment," he suggested, giving her the address.

"I don't know what I can do, Mr. Devlin, but I'll be there shortly."

"Thank you."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

While he waited for the woman to arrive, Brian watched the tapes again.

Nick regained consciousness slowly, moaning, and he fought to stop himself from echoing the sound.  Why did he hurt so much?  No one had tortured _him_.

He could feel the younger man's pain, building steadily, as Nick floated up from the nightmare-twisted black depths, reaching a crescendo when he forced his eyes open…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _Still here_ , Nick thought.  _The big guy's gonna be goin' nuts.  Who the hell is this guy?_

Nick rolled onto his side, his teeth starting to chatter slightly as he sat up on the wooden pallet that was bolted to the brick walls.  While it wasn't comfortable, it at least got him off the colder cement floor.  He pulled his legs up, hugging them tightly to his chest in an effort to generate some body heat.  The movement caused beads of sweat to erupt across his forehead, the pain in his sides nearly overriding the need for warmth.

And come to think of it, where was the big guy?  His father had to know something was up.  Why else would the guy be taping all this?

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Brian leaned forward, staring at the screen.  _I know, Nick.  I know.  Please, just hang on.  I'm trying to help you, but I can't find you!_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Nick raised his head and stared at the brick walls.  If he could just figure out where the hell he was, he could drop a hint into the tapes, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing to provide a clue.  For all he knew, he might be in LA, Mexico, or even Turkey for that matter.

Brick building.  Cold.  No exterior sounds.  Minimal food and water, nothing but an old Yuban coffee can to relieve himself in.  It was worse than the POWs he'd seen in 'Nam.

He shivered.  He'd started having dreams the first night.  Victor Charlie had him.  They were doing terrible things to him, and every time he managed to escape he ran right into a damned booby-trap.  The first night it was a bouncing betty, then a pungi pit, an ambush…  He couldn't escape.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _I'll help you_ , Brian spoke silently to the screen.  _God, Nick, now I understand. You were right, you did grow up in Vietnam…  Another mistake we made.  Tell me where you are!_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Nick rocked slightly.  Whoever the man was, he took no chances.  He was gassed before each session, waking up to find himself back in the dark chamber of horrors with the guy and his video camera.  He never even said enough to give Nick a clue about why he was doing what he was.

 _The guy, he's so… patient_ , Nick decided, waiting just the right amount of time, drawing out the pain until Nick didn't think he could stand it anymore.

It all had to do with Brian Devlin.  His father.  The big guy.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          _I'm here, Nick!  Why can't you hear me?_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

This creep wanted his father to suffer, and he was using Nick to ensure his success.  In the lost, shadow-filled corners of his mind Nick found the idea pleasing. He meant enough to Brian Devlin to be used against him.

Nick's jaws tightened.

But did he?

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Brian stood, but was frozen in place, unable to take the steps necessary to carry him to the television so he could stop the tape.  He didn't want to see the truth in Nick's eyes, but—

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Why hadn't Brian come for him?  Why was he letting this happen?  Why hadn't he helped him?  Freed him?  Stopped the pain?

Maybe Brain Devlin didn't really want a son after all.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _Yes!  Yes, I do!_ silently yelled at the television screen.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Nick was lost in the fear that thought generated when he heard the familiar hiss of the gas.  _Oh, God, not again…_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The knock was soft, but Brian flinched slightly in response.  Pushing himself out of his chair, he walked to the door and peered out the security eye.  She was younger than he'd expected, maybe Nick's age, although she could easily be five years older or younger than the early 30s he guessed.  Her high cheekbones, almond-shaped gray eyes and long, thick black hair all hinted at an unusual and mixed racial background.  The loose jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were very casual, but she carried it off with style and grace.

She glanced at the small glass aperture and smiled reassuringly.

He opened the door.

"How did you know I was watching you?"

"Clarity of the glass changed," she said, stepping inside, her gaze expertly sweeping over his expensive teak furniture, scattered pieces of priceless art, and the elegant, if somewhat slightly disheveled Brian Devlin.

Brian motioned her to the couch and Dom walked around and took a seat.  _She moves like a dancer_ , he thought, _silent and fluid_.

Stalking to the television and VCR, he took a deep breath and inserted a tape marked "Nick – Day Three."

"This isn't pretty," he said softly.

"I'll need to see anything you have," Dom told him.

"Three tapes and a series of photographs is it.  And the police haven't been able to turn up anything helpful in their investigation."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Stabbing the off button, Brian tossed the remote control roughly on the coffee table and turned beseeching eyes on the young woman.  "Will you help me?"

"I'll do whatever I can."  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.  "I want to see all the tapes, in order, then I want to see the photos."

Brian sat back, rubbing his damp palms together.  It was definitely too hot in the apartment.  He'd have to have Mrs. Watanabi call the maintenance man.  He nodded.  "Lieutenant Borden said he'd stop by later with whatever the forensics was able to turn up."

Dom gave the man a hopeful smile.  "When did Nick disappear?"

"It was after an argument we had," he admitted reluctantly.  "But I can't remember what it was about."

"Why don't you try and catch a nap?  You look like you could use it," she suggested.

He nodded, forcing himself to lean back in the chair and close his eyes.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Brian watched as Nick fought to keep his knees from giving out.  If they did he'd be suspended from the shackles and Nick had already discovered what that did to his shoulders.  The floor was slick with the young man's blood, and he was having difficulty convincing his knees to stay locked.

 _Fight, Nick_ , Devlin encouraged.  _You just have to fight.  I'm trying, Nick.  I really am_.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Nick moaned softly.  How many days had he been here?  Five… six?  He was so cold and hungry.  He hurt and his father had abandoned him.  Brian Devlin was going to let him die.

 _No!  No, I'm not, Nick.  You've got to believe that_.

"Ready to begin?" the mechanized voice asked.

Brian swung around to face the man in black.  _Stop!  Leave my son alone_.

"Take your best shot, asshole," Nick growled.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Dom stood and stretched, then rubbed her eyes, the movement jarring Brian away from his dream.  Watching, she wasn't sure if her eyes stung from fatigue or suppressed tears.  Watching the video tapes was an exercise in frustration and revulsion.

Brian reached up and massaged his own aching temples, his stomach churning as the pain flared.  "I need to lie down," he said.

"Okay," she said.  "Is there anything I can get you?"

"No, nothing.  I just need to lie down for a little while.  I'll be fine."

"I'm going to borrow your computer for a while then."

Brian watched her sit down at the computer and start typing in a complicated code.  Staggering the rest of the way into his room, Devlin glanced once at the bed, and then sank down into his reading chair.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Your father is evil," the man in black said, circling Nick.

"He's not really my father," the younger man muttered through bloodied lips.

"Not your father?"  Mechanical laughter echoed off the cold walls.  "I know better."

"He might've slept with my mother," Nick said, "but he wasn't a father.  He was never there."

 _But I didn't know_ , Brain called out from the shadows.  It was cooler in the shadows and he was burning up.

The man stopped.  "He didn't want you."

Brian stepped closer to the pair.  _That's a lie!  If I had known—_

"He was too busy fulfilling his patriotic duty to worry about some whelp."

"He loved my mother," Nick whispered, tears filling his eyes.

 _Yes.  Yes, I did_ , Brian said, reaching out and trying to wipe away the points of wetness.

"If he'd loved her, he wouldn't have left her."

_She left me!  We— We grew apart.  She didn't tell me she was pregnant.  She—_

"All I ever wanted was a father," Nick said.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Brian?"

He started and sucked in a sharp breath.  "Yeah," he called groggily.

Dom pushed the door open and found Devlin sitting dejectedly in his leather recliner that occupied one corner of the over-large bedroom.  He hadn't even tried to sleep.  "I need your help."

He nodded and forced himself up, wobbling as he walked over to join her.  His stomach was still unsettled, and it was still too hot in the apartment, but at least his head felt a little better.

Before they reached the computer a knock on the door halted them.

"The next tape?"

Brian shook his head.  Crossing to the door, Devlin checked the security peep-hole, then pulled the door open.  "Lauren, what are you doing here?"

"Brian, I understand why you're not at the Center, but I have to get some input from you on the Romanian Exchange events.  I'm sorry," she added, giving him a compassionate hug.

Devlin's head dropped.  "The exchange program…" he muttered.  "It slipped my mind.  It completely slipped my mind."

The woman glanced in Dom's direction, then she smiled up at Brian as he stepped back.  "I understand.  If I can just have you look these over I shouldn't need to bother you for a couple more days."  She handed Devlin a thin file.  "Any luck?" she asked softly.

"No, not yet.  Lauren Dane, Dominique Gierard," he said, then slipped an arm around Lauren's shoulders.  "She's helping me."

"It's Dom," the woman replied, extending a hand to Lauren.

The secretary accepted it, real relief in her eyes.  "I'm glad," she said, squeezing Dom's hand, then turned to her employer.  "Please, Brian, if there's anything—"

"I know, Lauren.  I know," he interrupted quietly, pulling the woman into another hug.

"I haven't been this scared since that episode with the virus," she whispered into his shoulder.

"Me, either," he admitted.  "But Dom and I have work to do."  He pushed her back, his hands still resting on her shoulders.  "We'll find him.  Here," he flipped the file open, signed, and handed it back, "this should keep things running for a few more days."

"I'll see to it," Lauren told him, accepting the folder.

Dom waited for him to escort the woman to the door and see her out, and when Devlin rejoined her they sat down at the computer.

"Okay," Dom said.  "When did you enter your service with the Agency?"

"I was courted in 1953, just after I returned from Korea.  I'd been in military intelligence and it seemed like a natural progression.  I was actually recruited in 1954 and went active that same year."  His eyes clouded over.  "I remained active for seven years, until 1961."

She typed in the pertinent information.  "Who was your recruiter?"

"I don't know his name.  His code was Intrepid."

She added that.  "And what countries did you work in?"

"All over Europe," Brian said.  "Western and Eastern."

"And when you left, you started the Devlin Agency, an international detective agency, right?"

"Yes, in 1962.  I had plenty of contacts who were willing to help, people who were tired of the Cold War.  The agency flourished."

"And you never looked for Nick's mother?"

Brian's head snapped up, his gaze meeting hers.  "No.  I thought— I thought she didn't love me anymore.  There was no reason to try to find her.  I didn't know about Nick."

Dom tapped the enter key and sat back, then, turning to Brian, she slapped his knee.  "Let's go get something to eat while all the data-crunching is going on.  I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

Brian started to refuse, but changed his mind.  He was hungry, and maybe getting out would help him cool off.  Besides, sitting there staring at the screen wasn't going to make the results come up any faster.  "Okay, what did you have in mind?"

"You pick," Dom said, as she stood and arched her back to work out the kinks.  "I'm not that familiar with this area."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Armondo's was a quiet, beach-side bistro and Dom worked quietly on her bowl of turkey-rice soup and small loaf of warm rye bread.  Brian only picked at his Caesar Salad, but managed to put away several cups of the restaurant's strong Turkish coffee.

He looked out over the Pacific.  The day was as gray as his own thoughts, but it was still hot and sticky.

"It must have been interesting, getting to know Nick as an adult," Dom said.

Brian nodded, and smiled sadly.  "Nick's… headstrong.  He's trying to prove himself – to me, and to himself."

"To you?"

"Yes," Brian admitted.  "I think he feels that he has to be as good at what he does as I was, but we're two very different people.  I was… advantaged.  I was in the right place at the right time.  I had contacts, experience, and I had the money.  Nick has good street smarts, but he's a little… inexperienced in the subtleties."

"He looks familiar," Dom said, gazing down into her nearly empty bowl of soup.

"Do you play racquetball?  He's a pro."  The last came out laced with pride.

Dom's eyebrows peaked.  "No, I don't play that often.  I noticed in the police files that he was in Vietnam."

"Yes.  Yes, he was, but you can't be a vet…"  He trailed off, deciding that the haunted expression in her eyes said she could.

Dom smiled thinly.  "Yes, I was there.  My mother was French-Vietnamese; I grew up splitting my time between the U.S. and Vietnam until Tet, when my parents were killed.  What unit was he in?"

"Bravo Company, 1969-70."

She shook her head.  "It wasn't there.  I guess he reminds me of someone…" She smiled.  "Tony.  He was a cop in San Francisco, then a merchant marine; he's a PI now, too.  Good man.  Tony Lupo, although he goes by 'Wolf' now."  She sipped her coffee.  "You know, the fact that Nick's a vet might help in this situation."

"Help?  How?"

"When you've spent time in Hell, a second trip isn't quite so bad."

Brian's gaze drifted past Dom to the small waves that curled and died on the sandy beach.

She finished her soup and bread, then drained her coffee cup before setting it back in its saucer.  "That information should be waiting," she said softly.

He nodded and stood, then reached into his wallet and left cash for the meal and tip.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Do you hate your father?"

"No," Nick said, warily watching the man as he circled around the room.  "No, I— I don't know."

 _Nick, please, don't listen to him_.  Brian knew his pleas couldn't be heard by his son, but he couldn't _not_ try.

"Brian Devlin once had a son…"  The man giggled, then started humming a nursery rhyme as he continued to circle and chant.  "Brian Devlin thought it'd be fun, but all the man's money and all the man's friends, couldn't put Nicky back together again."  He raised the machete he was carrying and swung.

_Nick!_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Do any of these names mean anything to you?" Dom asked, handing Brian a list that filled sheet after sheet of computer paper.

His face paled and he sank down into a leather chair.  How could he track down all of these names when he was getting too weak to stand?  "No," Brian whispered.  "It can't be possible.  None of these men could have Nick."

"Why?" Dom asked quietly, leaning closer.

"They're dead.  All of them."

Dom took the list back and glanced down at the names.  "Dead, huh?"

"Wait," Brian said, forcing himself to his feet.  The room writhed and he blinked to force it back into the proper shape.  "Someone's missing… a man, he—"  He nearly fell, and Dom reached forward to steady him.

"You better sit down," she said, guiding him back into his seat.

"It's too hot in here."

"Just take it easy," she soothed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Nick lay on the damp cement floor, his eyes open, but unseeing.  He knew three things with absolute certainty:  he was cold, he hurt, and he was alone.  A fourth truth rose up in his mind, but he didn't want to acknowledge it.

It forced him to.

He was dying.

_Damn it, Nick, you have to fight!_

Nick stared into an undulating gray fog that swept over his thoughts and snuffed out any motivation he had to move or try and think.  _Go away_ , he replied to his father's voice.  _You don't care about me_.

Brian staggered to his son's side.  Bending down, he tried to touch the man's corpse-gray face.  _That's not true; I do care.  I love you, you're my son_.

Nick shuddered violently.

_Nick?  Nick!_

The gray fog closed in around them.

 _No!_ Brian screamed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The distant sound of a piano sent Brian into a fit of chills.  The same swirling fog that had whisked Nick away refused to free the older man from the limbo he wandered through.  But there was at least one improvement to the situation he realized; he wasn't burning up anymore.

He rocked slightly side to side and his muscles responded, seizing up with a racking pain that caused him to moan.

The music stopped for a moment, then picked up again.

The fog began to dissolve and Brian's eyes cracked open.  He blinked several times before the remaining milky fuzz clouding his vision disappeared and he realized he was in his own room.

 _It must be Dom playing_ , he thought.  _She's not bad_.

With considerable effort, Brian rolled over and pushed himself up so he was sitting, staring through the half-open curtains.  From the hazy sun that filtered in he guessed it was mid-morning.

_Mid-morning?  How long have I been asleep?  What's going on?_

Like an arthritic matron, he wobbled up and staggered to the chair where his bathrobe was draped haphazardly across the back.  Pulling the soft velour robe on, he headed for the living room and a few answers.

Reaching the door took more effort than he'd anticipated and by the time he actually made it down the short hall to the entrance to the living room, he was out of breath, shaking and dripping sweat.

The music stopped again.

"Big guy?"

Brian's head snapped up, his eyes widening.  "N-Nick?" he whispered, his voice catching as his throat constricted.  He couldn't be real.  He looked okay.  God, was he seeing ghosts?

Nicholas Devlin Corsello watched his father's face shift from flushed red to pasty white.  Without thinking, he slid off the piano bench and grabbed the swaying man before he collapsed.

"Hey, you should still be in bed.  You were really sick, you know," Nick said as he guided Brian to the closest support available, the bench he'd just vacated.

Devlin welcomed the sturdy seat and squeezed the edge with one hand to make sure he didn't slip off as the room spun.  With the other, he groped until he found Nick's shoulder, then dragged the younger man into a tight hug.

"Are you okay?" he managed to whisper before his voice broke.

Nick wrapped tentative arms around his father, relaxing slightly a moment later when he realized that it felt good to get a hug from his usually undemonstrative father.  He tightened his grip.  "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.  But if I get this bug I'm gonna hold you personally responsible.  I'll have to charge you a daily rate, plus expenses, 'cause I sure as hell won't be able to work."

Nick felt real, whole.  Without letting go Brian asked, "Bug?"

"Yeah, you know, the Commie-flu-thing that the people you brought over here from Romania snuck past customs.  Lauren said half the staff and performers at the Center have it, too."

Devlin pulled back, not wanting to let Nick go, but suddenly embarrassed by the way he'd been clinging to the younger man.  "I've…  I've been sick?"

Nick slid back, sorry that Devlin had regained his composure.  His concerned gaze locked on Brian's.  "Real sick.  High fever, chills.  Mrs. Watanabi called me day before yesterday.  The doctor said you shouldn't be left alone.  We almost put you in the hospital, but I know how you feel about that."

It wasn't real?  It was all a dream?  A result of his fever?  What had he said?  Brian's face colored slightly.

"You mean you've been here?  Sitting with me?"

Nick's sudden smile was brighter than the sun filtering through the patio doors.  He nodded.  "Just returnin' the favor, big guy."  His expression grew more serious.  "Guess you were having some pretty bad nightmares."

Brian's eyebrows climbed in surprise.  _Oh, great, how do I explain this?_

"How do you know?"

Nick shifted uncomfortably on the bench.  "Well, you, uh, you were mumbling a lot in your sleep, movin' around a lot, callin' out."

"Oh," Brian said, running his hands through his hair to rearrange the disheveled mass.  His palm, rubbing over the stubble on his face, caused him to frown.  "How long have I been sick?"

"Three days," Nick said.  "But the last twenty-four hours have been the worst. The doctor said that's what he's been seeing with the other people who caught it, too."

Unable to meet his son's eyes, Brain asked, "What was I saying?"

Nick looked like he'd just been caught dipping frosting off a cake.  "I— I don't know…  Not exactly.  Mostly you just mumbled a lot, but you, uh…"

"Yes?"

"You were calling for me," Nick admitted, his cheeks turning a fiery red.

Nick's expression stalled Brian's own embarrassment and he slid closer to his son, slipping an arm around the younger man's shoulders and pulling him back into a hug.  "You know how much I care, don't you?" he asked softly but intensely.

Nick nodded against his father's shoulder.  "You had me a little worried," he admitted.  "I didn't know how to help you."

Brian chuckled softly until it caught in his throat as a sob.  "I had you worried?" Devlin mumbled.  He pushed Nick back to arm's length, forcing the tears back.  "Nick, did we have an argument just before I caught this thing?"

Nick's cheeks reddened again.  "Yeah, but it was, uh, stupid.  I was stupid.  It was my fault, too.  I—"

Brian smiled tiredly.  "We _did_ have an argument."

Nick nodded.

"Did you take off?"

"No," Nick said.  "I just hung out at Homebase and talked it out with Otis."

Brian smiled thinly.  "And everything's fine?"

"Sure, big guy, everything but you."

Brian sighed heavily, his hand reaching out to pat Nick's knee.  "That was one hell of a nightmare."

"Sounded like it," Nick admitted.  "I've had a few like that."

"Vietnam?"

Nick nodded.  "And yours were about me?"

Brian forced himself to stand, Nick automatically popping up, one hand resting on Devlin's arm to help steady him as they walked to the kitchen.  Mrs. Watanabi smiled and bowed slightly, inquiring after Brian's health in her softly spoken Japanese.

"Fine," he replied.  "Thank you for calling Nick."

She smiled and nodded again, then shooed the man out so she could make the tea she knew he'd come in for.

Father and son made their way back into the living room, Brian sinking down on the sofa while Nick elected the chair.

"What happened to me in your dreams?" Nick asked after a few minutes passed in comfortable silence.

"Someone had kidnapped you, trying to get back at me."

"Who?"

Brian shook his head.  "I don't know.  There was a woman helping me—"

"Why am I _not_ surprised," Nick interrupted with a grin.

"And we'd almost figured out who it was."  He shifted on the sofa to make eye contact with Nick.  "I felt so helpless.  I couldn't help you."

"I'll bet you were doing everything you could," Nick countered.

"It wasn't enough."

"Hey," Nick said, his tone chastising.  "I know you'd do everything you could. Everything, big guy.  I know that's a fact."

A small smile cracked Brian's serious expression.  "I'm glad, because you're right."

Mrs. Watanabi entered and sat a tray on the coffee table between the two men.

"Thank you," Nick said before his father could.  "I'll see to it he drinks it before it gets cold."

The older Japanese woman smiled and bowed slightly before leaving them alone again.

"Oh, you will, will you?" Brian challenged when the woman was out of earshot.

"Yep," Nick replied, pouring the pale green liquid into one of the small porcelain cups.  "Here.  Drink up."

Brian accepted the cup.  "About that argument—"

"Forget it," Nick said.  "I don't even remember what it was all about."

"Good," Devlin said around sips of the tea.  "I don't either."

The phone rang and Nick stood and answered it.  "Devlin residence…  Earl?  Yeah, hi—  Who?  Wait a sec, will ya, I'll give you to the big guy…  Yeah, he's doin' a lot better.  Hang on."  Nick held out the phone for Brian, who accepted it.

"Lieutenant Borden, what can I do for you?"  He listened for a long moment, his face paling.  "I appreciate the news, Lieutenant…  Right."  With shaking hands he deposited the receiver in Nick's open hand.

"What?"

"Kyle Nordtaft," Brian said softly.

"Who?"

Brian's gaze met Nick's.  "The man from my nightmare."

"The guy who nabbed me?"

Devlin nodded.

"So?"

"He's back from the dead, and in the country."

Nick returned, sinking down on the sofa beside his father.  "The guy in your dream's really here?"

Devlin nodded, one arm automatically circling around Nick's shoulder.

Nick tried to smile.  "Maybe you better tell me what he did."

"I'd rather not."

"Then what about this woman?  Is she real, too?"

Brian shook his head.  "I don't know."  He let his eyes drop closed, his head falling against the back of the couch.  "My God, Nick.  I don't think I could go through that again.  If it was real—"

"Hey, don't worry.  We're in this together.  If it's anything at all."

Brian's eyes opened and he looked fondly at his son.  "More than anything I wish I could've known you as a child, but you've grown into quite a man."

"Uh…  Uh, t-thanks," Nick stuttered.

"And where'd you learn to play piano?"

Nick shrugged.  "It just sort of happened."

Brian ruffled Nick's black hair.  "It did, did it?  Maybe I could pay for lessons."

"No way.  Uh-uh, not at my age.  I ain't puttin' up with no old blue-haired lady rappin' _my_ knuckles."

Brian smiled.  _Thirty, not thirteen_ , he reminded himself.

The End


End file.
